Table for Two
by izure
Summary: A mission with Vaughn proves slightly more difficult than usual for Sydney - and vice versa. Set in season 3.
1. Part 1: Table for Two

SEQ CHAPTER h r 1 This is my first Alias fic, written to get myself out of a rut of unfinished Stargate fics.

**Genre:** Slightly pointless romance and angst.

**Summary: **A mission with Vaughn proves slightly more difficult than usual for Sydney. S3.

I value all feedback, good, bad or ugly - as long as it's constructive, it's welcome. Please let me know what you think.

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Table for Two

His hand on my back, the slightest of touches, sends my nerves tingling. He does this well, this acting. His smile is genuine as he looks down at me. His touch is sure, his walk the close, possessive stance of a man taking his girlfriend out to dinner.

I almost believe it.

I instantly dislike the restaurant. The lighting is too dim. The tables are small, separated from eachother by expanses of floor that suggest most of the patrons are couples, wanting privacy and personal space. Some of them are dancing on the open dance floor towards the back. Soft music. Flowers.

I feel exposed in the black dress. It's a useful item of clothing, short enough to allow me to run if I need to, but long enough that the slight bulge of the holster strapped to my thigh is almost imperceptible. My arms are bare and I can feel every time he steps close enough for the fabric of his shirt to brush against my skin. The warmth I feel is not only from the central heating - which is turned up far too high, in any case.

I pull away slightly, unable to bear it. He frowns but knows better than to chastise me out in the open.

I scan for the exits instinctively, and studying their accessibility helps to keep me focussed on the job. The waiter leads us to a table in the corner. Vaughn gets in before him to pull my chair out for me and it's then up to me to make it look as if I expect it. Smiling.

As Vaughn sits opposite and the waiter assures us that everything on the menu is delicious, I pick up the folded card and flip through it. Trying to avoid his gaze.

Leaning across the table, he says softly. "We've done this before, Syd."

I flick idly through the menu. Anything not to look at him. "Of course." I say. "It's a standard op."

"No." A slight pause. "I mean masqueraded as a couple."

Of course I know what he means. I push my hair back out of my face and run my eyes down the menu.

"You've had better training in this than I have," he goes on, low-voiced. "Holding your cover with Sloane. You know you have to make it believable. Right now, Syd, you're not doing a very good job. We don't want to attract attention. If there's something wrong, you need to tell me, so that we can reconsider doing this tonight."

I look over the tables of men and women enjoying a Saturday night out. It's cold outside, but that hasn't stopped the flow of restaurant-goers from braving the night air. Most of the tables are full.

"Im fine." I say.

"Syd -"

I look up from the menu and put on my best ready-for-anything smile. "Im fine. Really."

Vaughn sighs. I make an effort to look like a girl on a date. Like Vaughn said, one of the best ways to maintain cover is to _believe_. Some actors, I've always thought, become their characters - even if it's for the short time they are on camera or stage. I suppose that's the same thing we've been trained to do. It scares me, sometimes, how easy it is to slip into a role - to play a high-flying party girl, a nerdy technician or a loyal agent of SD-6. But now what frightens me is that I can't find the persona that is me dating Vaughn.

He's married, forgodsake.

Fortunately, the waiter appears to take our orders. I order the first thing on the menu, which turns out to be stir-fried vegetables in an Asian sauce. Then I remember that I don't like Asian food.

I concentrate miserably on the small flower-arrangement in the centre of the table and try to stop my thoughts from wandering. They do anyway and I find myself wondering if he's thinking about her now. Lauren is beautiful, I'll grant her that. Intelligent. She obviously loves him. I'm pretty damn sure he loves her. They're happy together, and I'm over blaming him for moving on with his life after my disappearance. My death.

Having ones own funeral occurring is a disturbing thing. When I learnt about it, it chilled me to the core and left me sleepless for two weeks. I had begun to wonder who had attended. A morbid fascination, perhaps, yet a fascination nonetheless. Were there flowers? Where exactly on the beach had my ashes been scattered? Had it rained that day, or been fine?

"Sydney."

"Hm?" I reply vaguely, picking at the tablecloth.

"Can you see our target?"

He's staring at me now. I remember with a start that that's why we're here, and look over his shoulder at the crowd of talking, laughing, eating, drinking people. I scan the crowd leisurely. "Over there, near the fountain." I say. "Grey suit. Blonde accompaniment."

He shifts his chair slightly to put him in easier view of the man we're scoping. My gaze drifts easily from the man I'm supposed to be observing to the man sitting opposite me. Caresses his cheek, moves across his chin, lingered on his lips. I know exactly how those lips taste, how they feel beneath my own. His eyes - his eyes are incredible. Had he ever thought it strange that during the brief time we were a couple that I would sit there across the table from him, or on the opposite end of the couch, or propped up on an elbow in bed and hold his gaze for fifteen minutes at a time so that I could just stare into his eyes?

Does Lauren see in those eyes what I see?

"He's got a bodyguard near the back wall," Vaughn says. "And another one near the door."

Good for him.

"Sydney. You're really not yourself tonight," he turns back to look at me. That's exactly what I don't need right now. "Tell me."

I lick my dry lips and contemplate sending a note of congratulations to the proprietor of this restaurant about the perfect timing of their service. I nod my thanks as the waiter places a steaming dish before me and another before Vaughn. Food gives me something to focus on that's not my partner on this mission and I take a bite of the stuff. Not bad, I guess, but not good enough to convert me to Asian food.

"This is good," Vaughn comments, motioning to his chicken teriyaki. Forcing my regard away from the safety of fried vegetables. I watch him take another bite, slipping the morsel between his lips and savouring the taste of the sauce.

This is _not _good.

In all truth, I think the best thing to do would be to call off the operation tonight, go back to my hotel room and have a shower. Cold shower. Watch some TV and pilfer some potato crisps while the CIA is paying for them. And have a nice, long, sleep. Preferably dreamless.

"We've got a few days here, Syd." Vaughn says conversationally. "We have got time to play around with. This operation needs to go down perfectly; if your not feeling up to it, we need to reschedule."

"No," I say, forced smiling again. "We should do it tonight. If we lose track of him again it could be too late."

He nods, accepting this, and I'm glad that he lets the silence last until he has finished his meal. He asks for the wine list while I'm still choking down my Asian, and orders a bottle of Shiraz. I watch over my fork as he pours the deep red liquid into two glasses. He gives me a vague half-smile as he hands me a glass.

I gulp it too fast.

"Listen, I know things have been weird between us for a while now."

No, please don't talk.

"Since ... everything. Lauren."

Ah. He's about as articulate as I'm feeling now.

"But we both had the choice of requesting a transfer. Neither of us did - and I'm glad for that. That doesn't mean that things are any easier. But we do need to work together, Syd."

"You really love her, don't you?"

Oh, good Lord no. I didn't just say that out loud. I didn't. I'm out of my mind!

His eyes soften slightly and he gives a little sigh of breath. "Yes," he says, fingering his wine glass. "Yeah, I do."

For heavens sake, he married the woman. Of course he loves her. What's wrong with you, girl? I can't hold my smile. It slips and I know right now I look like I've taken a great big bite out of a particularly sour lemon. I cover it up with another sip of wine and check my watch. Still another forty minutes until the call comes through. Oh, this is bad. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ask a personal question."

"S'okay," he replies. "I don't mind. Really, Syd." He laughs slightly. "I like being able to talk to you. It's not often ..."

"We get the chance, I know. Especially since all this stuff with the Covenant started happening." I return, glancing again at my watch. "I like doing what we do - I like making a difference."

"But it would be nice to have a normal life? Yeah. But then, if we had that, would we miss it?"

I nod. "You mean, miss the constant movement, the lying, the nearly-getting-killed?"

"It's been a long time since things weren't about nearly-getting-killed. But I think I could live without it."

"Me too."

Silence falls again, but of a much more comfortable variety. I sip my wine and he sips his. Suddenly he looks up, catching my eyes with his. "Do you want to dance?"

Nearly choking as I swallow, I cover my mouth. "Um," I say at last. "Maybe that's not such a good idea."

He shrugs. "It'll pass the time."

I can't argue with that. Well, sure I could. Should. It's not a good idea, not in my current state.

So why the hell do I say yes? Why on earth do I stand up and take the hand he offers? Is it because I'm trying to do my job? Or is it because I'm trying to believe that this is real?

The instant my hand touches his I know this is a mistake. The tingling is back, in my palm, where his fingers curve around mine. The sense is so sharp that it almost burns me. I fight to keep this from showing on my face, but I know that it's not working.

The dance floor is even more dimly lit than the rest of the restaurant. It means that we have a better view of the restaurant itself, and I suddenly realise why it is that Vaughn asked me to dance. It gave us a clearer view of our target and better access to the exits. Somewhat disappointed, I step in front of him and settle my hand on his shoulder as he slips his around my waist. I try not to stand too close, which is surprisingly hard when one is trying to dance.

The music is a soft, slow piece. It's easy to find the steps to it and keep in rhythm. I follow Michael's lead. He moves so easily. It feels so right to move with him.

"Sydney -" he says, looking down at me.

I can't stop my hands from clenching his shirt fabric. Brushing over it, knowing that a few flimsy pieces of cotton are the only thing between my fingers his smooth, tight skin. I hang my head so that maybe he won't see in my eyes the thoughts that are running through my head. I want him to tell me that he feels the same way about me. I want him ...

I want him to make me believe.

My eyes burn with tears.

"Sydney."

I want to hold him like this ... I want ...

"Sydney?"

I look up. His eyes are unreadable, deep, serious. He cups my cheek gently with his hand, his fingers brushing delicately across my skin. Every instinct I have urges me to reach up, to meet his lips with mine. To kiss him.

He turns my head gently, until I'm looking across his right shoulder. Across to the restaurant. Where our man is standing up, holding a hand out to his blonde attachment, readying himself to leave.

"Time to move, Sydney." he says, pulling away slightly.

I ache with the lack of his warmth.

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Too long? Boring? Like it? Hate it? There's a little button down there that lets me know! Review please!


	2. Part 2: He Loves Her

**Disclaimer:** Alias belongs to people who aren't me.

Wow, thankyou to everyone who reviewed! I'm sorry it took me a while to get this next part up. My evil laptop crashed and took with it a lot of stuff I had saved, including this, so I had to rewrite it.

In response, I didn't name the target or the mission because I wasn't sure if I was going to continue with this and I thought it made it too complicated. As well as that I didn't like the idea for the mission. It seems like rather a sloppy operation for the CIA to be involved in. But I put it back in because now I have a few ideas of where this could go, and it's still sloppy - I apologise. But anyway.

Okay, here we go. Vaughn's turn:

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**_ He Loves Her_**

_PART 2: Vaughn's Point Of View_

Lauren calls me as I ready myself for the mission. "Hello, love." Her voice, clipped accent enhanced by the electronically-bridged distance, is a sudden and unwelcome interruption as I balance the phone against my shoulder to allow me to button my shirt. "I'm being sent to London. I won't be back by Friday - I'm sorry. I know we planned to spend some time together."

"We'll make up for it." I hear her smile, and I twist the gold wedding band off my finger and toss it absently on the bed. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, love."

I hang up before she does and I toss the phone after the ring, threading a tie through my collar. Lauren bought this one for me - it has small hockey sticks printed on it. She'd got it for me on one of her trips, and had waited, eyes shining in anticipation as I'd unwrapped the gift box. Waiting to see if the gift pleased me. I always make an effort to show that they do, that I appreciate the gesture. I fumble with the silky material, wondering why I feel so annoyed that she should call me here.

Then, with a grimace, I decide that the restaurant we're attending is a casual enough place to allow me to forgo the neckwear.

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The brick wall is rough against my back. I try to ignore the smell - which is hard, considering I'm crouched right next to the dumpster containing the offending odour. Soft, light rain has started to fall, soaking through my jacket and causing a drainpipe nearby to spill a cascade of water onto the street.

I've been running through the mission briefing over and over, trying to keep my mind on the job and off the disastrous evening so far. I was actually glad to learn that I would be coordinating this operation with Sydney. I'd hoped, even as Dixon outlined the situation, that we would be able to spend some time together, that I might be able to regain some of her friendship, her trust. Something of the friendship we once shared. Hoping - that she might talk to me.

Of course, I can think of a million places I would rather spend time with Sydney than an awkward dinner in a horrible restaurant followed by a stake-out in a foul alleyway waiting for some slimeball of a man to exit.

The mans name is Walter Fochette. Once a leading designer of computer security systems - rumoured to be unbreakable - he was contracted by the CIA to install part of their security network. When a glitch allowed the leakage of some sensitive data, he was arrested and, though he managed to avoid a jail sentence, was ordered to pay fines totalling somewhere in the hundreds of thousands.

A few months ago, someone at Langley noticed some unusual activity on the servers. They reported it, but nothing was found amiss - until they checked the system registry logs. Someone had hacked in using codes that implicated Fochette. There was no conclusive proof. Even Marshall is in awe of this guys ability to cover his tracks.

The proof came in the form of a phone tap, revealing that Fochette was about to meet with someone we believe to be a representative of the Covenant. We're unsure of the nature of the information he might have been able to lift off our network, but it's entirely possible that he had access to critical intelligence, personnel files, even our data on Rambaldi. With information like that, he can name his price.

The meeting with the Covenant representative is in three days. Our mission is to take Fochette into custody - quietly, without arousing the suspicions of the Covenant contact, so that we can ID the representative. And ...

Why'd she have to wear that dress?

She's got plenty of dresses for various disguises and situations, and most of them enough to reduce the IQ of any male within visual range by a few significant points. But when she emerged from her hotel room wearing that tight, low-cut, form-fitting black number, it was a while before I could make any sort of coherent sound, let alone look away. When after a few moments she began to give me concerned looks, I managed a strangled 'Let's go' and spent the drive to the restaurant trying to keep my stubbornly recalcitrant eyes on the road.

She's a very intelligent woman. I'm sure she must know what kind of effect she must have on men. I'm pretty sure she noticed my behaviour, labelled it quite rightly as inappropriate and offensive, and that's why she spent the rest of the night avoiding eye contact and making no effort to talk to me.

And I'm doing it again. Letting my concentration wander where it's not supposed to.

I key my comm., trying to draw my focus back onto the mission. "Anything yet?"

I count every time I hear her voice, as if to save the words in my mind. It's only been a few weeks since she was found in Hong Kong. After two years and a funeral, alive. She truly is a walking miracle - and living, breathing proof of my lack of faith.

Her reply is somewhat muffled and flat. "Not yet."

It's Sydney's job to make it known to Fochette that someone is on to him. We have a few men set up out front to make it look convincing. When his bodyguards - considering they're trained half-decently - realise that something is up, they'll head for the only other serviceable exit. This one. That's when we make our move.

Theoretically.

I want this to work. I want Fochette out of the way so that I can talk to Sydney while we have the chance to do so without her father, Dixon, or Lauren interrupting. I want to smooth things out. I want her to talk to me, because this awkwardness, this silence, is torture. She has every reason to hate me, I know - I didn't wait for her. I didn't look hard enough for her. I wasn't there to stop whatever it was she went through in those two years. And I pretended I could have another relationship that meant as much to me as she did. But did marrying Lauren turn me into some horrible sort of person? The way Sydney is skirting around me, you'd think I'd _known _she was alive.

If only she could realise how I felt when I realised I'd lost her. If only I could make her understand how it felt to wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, having heard her say my name. How I felt when I first met Lauren, and how I thought that maybe life was worth living, until I dreamt that the woman lying beside me was not the woman I married.

And then in the restaurant she was sitting there not saying a word to me. Was it so damn hard for her to even pretend that she wanted to be around me, that she was on a date with me, even just for a few hours?

I snapped at her. Went into teacher mode and started spouting some crap about making it believable.

I was mad because I hate that look in her eyes. The wary, guarded look that says she's calculating everything she says before she says it, so as not to say anything out of place. I was mad because she looked so damn _edible_ in that dress. Mad because Lauren had bought me a stupid tie that I didn't want to wear. I was mad because I wanted her to talk to me and she wouldn't.

It wasn't her I was mad at.

I was panicking. This shouldn't be so hard, but it is. Trying to keep myself focussed on the mission wasn't working. My gaze remained steadily on her, and no amount of coaxing, of pleading and rationality would tear it free. Every gesture that she made - tucking the strands of her hair behind her ears, twirling the fork absently in one hand - was so painfully familiar. I remember the scent of her, the taste of her. The way she speaks, walks, breathes. I knew I was getting further and further into the danger zone, but I couldn't pull back.

And then she set me back on track.

"_You really love her, don't you." _

Her reminder that I'm married to a woman that I supposedly love. That I should not be eyeing up my co-worker while I'm on a covert operation. I needed the subtle message, and used it to reinforce the fact in my own mind.

_"Yeah, yeah I do."_

As if saying it somehow made it more real.

I should really have called this thing off. Let Syd go back to the hotel while I went out and got horribly, horribly drunk. But I couldn't, because, if everything goes to plan, we should have the next few days to ourselves and I want that time with her.

So I asked her to dance.

Holding her that close to me again, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, moving together with the rhythm, that was when I really realised how dangerously close I was to forgetting. I wanted to keep holding her forever. It felt too right, as if I would wake up and find her next to me in bed, and that this was all a dream. It would have been far too easy to let go of myself, to pull her against me and kiss her.

The faint scent of her perfume still clings to my shirt where her hand rested.

"Okay, he's coming."

The sudden sound makes me jump, and I swear under my breath. "Okay," I say aloud. "Let's do this."

I pull my balaclava over my face and draw my gun from its holster. The door opens and a cautious figure emerges - one of the bodyguards, gun drawn, stepping over to the other side of the alley and checking left and right before Fochette and his entourage follow.

I step out of the shadows as Sydney comes in from behind, her own balaclava obscuring her face.

"Don't move!" I shout. Two guns swing my way, steely gazes following. The blonde girl gives a startled gasp, the only sound above the trickling water. Warily, I trace the movement of the men's guns. "Hands in the air."

A heartbeat passes and then they're moving. Shoving Fochette and the girl to the ground and firing. I drop, useless thoughts streaming through my mind - _ImgonnadieImgonnadieI ... _as bullets whip through the air. I throw myself to one side, skidding across the wet pavement to crash into the brick wall, gun aimed and ready, searching the darkness for Sydney.

Still breathing and not dead, (apparently), I aim again and make ready to fire again, but see something that brings me up short.

Sydney.

The woman has a death wish. She dives low, smashing into the other bodyguards legs. He goes down on top of her, but she'd already rolling out from under him. Her gun, useless in such close quarters, remains in one hand. And dammit, now I can't use my gun for fear of hitting her.

Instead, I squeeze the trigger a few times, sending a few bullets in the general direction of the bodyguard closest to me, but none of them hit. He closes in, firing again and again, with somewhat more accuracy than I managed. A chunk of brick whistles past my ear. I press myself against the damp bricks and realise, belatedly, that this was probably not the best of plans. These aren't the usual bodyguard-types, the ones with no necks and two-word vocabularies. This man is trained, lean and muscular and probably very, very good at what he does.

So I throw my gun at him.

Now, in an ordinary situation, this is not something I would recommend. In fact, it's the last thing I would recommend. It's totally and utterly stupid. Which is probably why it worked so well - the guy was surprised by the move, and ducked, slipping on the pavement. My gun caught him on the side of the head, glancing off to one side. I move in close, kicking his own gun from his hand while he's distracted, grabbing it as it skitters across the road and ramming him so that he goes down. Using my weight to pin him - and his own gun butt to knock him senseless.

It's then that I hear the noise. Standing up, gun in hand, but not fast enough. Fochette and the girl are already fading into the shadows and the rain. Shit.

"Ah!"

I turn and find Sydney doing a first-class job of kicking the second bodyguard's arse. Time seems to move in fragments, like bad frame-rate on a video. But she - she is brilliant. Moving like a dancer, she makes it look effortless, easy. As if she knows exactly what she's doing and what is going to happen next. I bet there's no little voice inside her head wailing in fear.

He swings a punch at her, and she ducks. Comes up underneath and smacks him in the jaw. He stumbles back, then comes at her again - she anticipates, leaping up and rolling over his back, landing behind him. Kicks him twice, viciously, the blows knocking him back the other way, and relieving him of his gun.

But he has the advantage of size and strength. He whirls and grabs her by the arm, intending to throw her over his shoulder, but she twists and its him who cries out in pain when something snaps sickeningly. Sydney regains her balance, but he's still moving. As I watch in those few short seconds, he reaches down with his good arm and comes up with something that glints in the faint light. Metal. A knife.

Panicking, my heart thudding around somewhere in the region of my mouth, I try to line up a shot, but all I get is Sydney. She half-turns, sensing something's wrong, and he slashes downwards. The blade catches her across the shoulder blade. Her own cry of pain is soft. My blood freezes in my veins, even though I know in my mind that the wound could not be fatal, having come from that angle. The man lunges again, aiming this time for her heart.

Too late for hesitation. I take the shot.

The man goes down like a brick in a lake, bullet through his chest, and I shoot him again for having hurt her. And then there is silence above the sound of screeching car tires and the gentle trickle of the rain.

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I ply her with questions, but she answers none. She won't let me look at the wound, insisting it isn't serious, staring out the car window at the passing streetlights. Eventually she gives me a short, annoyed "Im fine" and wraps her arms around herself. I recognise the defensive gesture, and the way she retreats into herself. I let her. There's nothing else I can do.

When I reach my hotel room, she continues on to her own, not saying a word. I collapse on the couch and flick on the TV. A car chase scene blares out at me, all gunshots and flashy camera angles. Disgusted, I turn it off.

We failed. I hit the bodyguard too hard. He was dead by the time I checked his pulse, so we haven't even got one useful lead in this operation. Because of this, the Covenant is that much closer to getting the information they need to start an all-out, full-scale intelligence war. And yet my thoughts are drawn not to the fact that Sark may just win this time, but to my wedding ring, sitting on the bed next to the tie my wife bought for me.

I love my wife.

Tonight was a mistake. Dancing with Sydney - I shouldn't have done that. I love the woman I married. I love -

I love the way the dim lights played across Sydney's hair as I'd held her in my arms. I love the way she'd looked at me just then. I love the way she was so intelligent, so smart, so friendly and caring and I love that funny, playful side of her that shows only when she's relaxed. I love Sydney.

I know I should go and have a shower. Change my shirt, and go for a walk somewhere to clear my head.

I know I should put my wedding ring back on.

But when I stand, I don't head for the bathroom. Greeting an elderly lady as I emerge into the hallway, I walk slowly to the door next to mine and take a deep breath. I knock softly.

"Sydney?"

* * *

Hm. I'm not sure if this chapter works or not.

There is more to come if you want it and my laptop doesn't eat it.

**AN:** I know nothing about computer security systems. I'm making it up. Any inaccuracies are unintentional.

Thanks to elly for the beta.


	3. Part 3: Car Chases and Chocolate

Hello all. Sorry once again for the delay in getting this up. I haven't had much time to spare, and neither has my beta (sorry Ellie!) so this chapter hasn't been thoroughly edited. Feel free to point out any mistakes or faults and I'll fix them up.

Disclaimer: Alias not mine

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PART 3

_Car Chases and Chocolate - Sydney's Point of View_

I hate car chase movies. There is no element of realism in them whatsoever. The camera never shows you, first-person, the sickening motion of sliding sideways, the burning smell of rubber and an overworked engine. They never show the gut-wrenching panic that overtakes you when you lose sight of the person you need to be following, the knowing that if you lose track of them you may never find them again. Having someone else at the wheel is even worse. You're relying on _them_ to keep you from crashing into something solid and putting an end to all your problems in one gigantic ball of flame, you're entrusting _them_ with your life, but you never really _trust_ them. No matter how much you rely on that person in everyday life, you still want that wheel in your own hands. Car chase movies are mindless. Completely insensitive to the details.

I sit, propped up on the couch with the cushions behind me to keep me from leaning on my wounded shoulder. If anyone walked in, they'd think I was some sort of lunatic. Sitting in a nice and fairly expensive dress, shoes tossed carelessly on the floor, feet on the couch, bleeding from a knife wound and drinking a glass of wine while watching siren-blaring action thrillers. For a while, I toy with calling room service just to see someone's reaction.

I can't get my dress off. It's true: the blood from my wound has dried, sticking the silky fabric directly to my skin, and I can't even reach that far back to loosen it. It hurts like absolute hell but it hurt even worse when I tried to pull the fabric away before. I should have fixed it up when I first got back, before the blood had a chance to dry; but it's easier just to sit here, and pretend the whole night never happened.

We failed. It was my fault. I should have stopped Fochette from running, but I didn't - I wasn't focussing properly. I wasn't doing my job. And now I can't go to bed because I can't take off my dress, and I don't want to get blood on the sheets.

Actually, I quite like the mindlessness of this movie. So much action you don't have time to think. There might be something in that that applies to my own life.

I think I may have had a little too much wine.

There is a soft knock, rousing me out of my stupor, and a voice "Sydney?"

Oh, damn.

No, no, no. I was just starting to forget. To relax. I need to relax. My shoulder hurts and I don't want to move, don't want to open the door. What does he want, anyway? To berate me about the failure of the mission? Too late, Vaughn, I've already covered that territory myself. Gave myself a thorough dressing-down, I did.

"Sydney?"

Can't seem to make myself get up.

There's a moment's pause, and for a second I think he's left. Then "Sydney, I've got Dixon on the phone."

I stand up labouriously and make my way over to the door. Sure enough, there he stands, holding his phone and speaking:

"Yes, yeah, she's fine. Yes, sir. I'll put you on speaker."

He just walks in, just like that; sits down on the couch and turns the volume of the TV down. Still wearing the clothes he's worn all night, even though the shirt is torn at the collar and streaked with dirt and darker patches of blood.

Dixon's voice blares out at me as he sets the phone on the side table. "Sydney, I heard what happened. Im glad you're alright."

"Yeah, yeah Im fine." I force myself to say, setting my glass of wine aside and trying to clear my head to sound somewhat professional. "It's just a surface wound."

"In any case, we've been monitoring Fochette's phone, and we've just intercepted a call to the person we believe to be the Covenant representative we're tracking down. Due to your interference, the meeting has been moved ahead to Thursday night, at a hotel in Tokyo, Japan. You're booked on the flight tomorrow morning. We'll update you as necessary."

"Thankyou, sir." Vaughn said.

"Good luck," Dixon returned, and the line went dead.

I glare at Vaughn. "You haven't changed your clothes."

Oh, yes, and the award for the greatest opening line of the conversation goes to ...

He looks me up and down. "Neither have you."

I grab my wine glass from the table. "I have an excuse. I can't get my dress off. You, on the other hand, are just plain lazy."

"I am not lazy. Im just ... tired. Have you got any more of that wine?"

I point him in the direction of the bottles, then hold out my glass for a refill. He sits down beside me on the couch and sips at his slowly.

"You can't get your dress off?" he looks at me, laughingly.

"Don't laugh. It's not funny. It hurts." But Im laughing too.

He sets his glass on the . "Let me take a look."

I shift away instinctively. "Vaughn ..."

"Hey, no, look. You need to get that wound clean. If you get an infection, you're not going to be any use in Tokyo and I don't want to have to do this all by myself."

Oh, boy.

Vaughn stands up and moves towards the door. "I've got some basic first-aid stuff in my suitcase."

So have I, but as I am _so _not having Vaughn rummage around my luggage, I let him return to his own room and get the stuff while I use the time to compose myself. I was prepared for a long night of television watching, junk food, wine and general slobbery. Hadn't expected to hear from Vaughn until the morning. Hadn't expected to hear from Dixon until he was scheduled to call us tomorrow.

I look at Vaughn's phone, lying on the table. The display shows the last number dialled. It's the contact number Dixon gave us.

As Vaughn returns, closing the door and setting out an array of medical supplies, I say "You called Dixon?"

"Huh?" he looks up, then guiltily down at his phone. Heh. Busted.

"You called Dixon."

Vaughn backs up, looking around defensively. "Uh, yeah."

"Why did you call Dixon when our scheduled check-in isn't until six tomorrow morning?"

"The meeting's been moved forwards."

"Yeah, but you didn't know that until you called Dixon. We were still working with the time-frame as outlined in the original mission briefing."

"I had to inform him of our status. He needed to know what happened."

"If he's been monitoring Fochette's calls, he would already know that we failed to take him into custody."

"Uh-huh." Vaughn snatches up his phone and snaps it shut. "I just wanted to check in." he finishes lamely.

I take another sip of wine, involuntarily wincing as I pull at the wound with my movement.

"Turn around," Vaughn orders, picking up a cotton swab and dipping it in a small jar of water. I stare at him for a moment, then shift so that my back is to him. He looks over the wound. I haven't seen it - it's right at the point where I'd have to position two mirrors to see it correctly - but I don't think it's too serious.

He touches me.

It's all I can do to keep from gasping. I feel like an idiot, but his hand is there on my bare shoulder, and it's so gentle and right. I keep myself rigidly facing forwards as he starts to wipe at the blood. It hurts. It stings. I grit my teeth.

He tugs at the strap of the dress. It slides down my shoulder. Okay, breathe, Sydney.

"He cut your dress, and the fabric is stuck in the wound. This might hurt a little."

A little. Don't you love how people always use that word? As if by saying a little, it makes it hurt less. It never does, though, it's always one big - "Ouch!"

"Sorry." he apologises.

I bet he's doing this on purpose.

I can feel his cool hands sliding down my back now. It's very, very hard not to lean back into his arms. I take short, deep breaths.

"You're right, though." he says, after a moment of silence. "I called Dixon after I knocked. I didn't think you'd let me in otherwise."

"What?"

He sighs. "You wouldn't have opened the door."

I try to think up something to say to that that wouldn't be a lie. "Im tired, Vaughn."

"I know." he subsides into silence again, working at the fabric stuck in the wound, softening it with the water. His touch is so gentle, yet it still hurts. I suck in a breath as he peels it away. The soft sound of the TV filters through the quietness.

"Lauren loves these movies." he says, suddenly.

"Car chases?" I say. "I hate them."

"Me too."

"Must be something to do with being field-rated."

"Uh-huh. I don't think we can save the dress, Syd."

"Damn. It was expensive. And useful. I liked this dress."

"I like it too. It looks good on you."

I blush fiercely, very glad that my back is to him.

"Okay, hold still."

I brace myself, and Im not disappointed. The pain as he pulls the last of the fabric free is minimal, but it's still pain. I gasp.

"Okay, that's the worst of it."

No, that's not the worst of it. He gets a fresh swab and starts to apply antiseptic cream. It's cool and soothing. He sticks a bandage over it. "There you go." he says, as if handing me a bag of groceries.

"Thanks." I say, looking down at my dress. I figure that if he's going to leave, I should give him this chance to do it without a fuss. He'll go back to his hotel room and go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll fly to Japan. We'll talk some more about the mission, eat crummy airline food, and spend the next day hunting for a man who is trying to sell our information to the highest bidder."Maybe I should go change."

I stand up and make my way to the bathroom, gingerly because of the wine, which is making me feel comfortably sleepy. I grab my PJ's from my suitcase and close the door, leaning my good shoulder against it for a moment to regain my breath. What is he doing here? After what happened tonight, I would have thought he would want to be as far away from me as possible. I stuffed up our whole mission. I let Fochette get away. I couldn't concentrate.

After a while, I remove my makeup and wash my hands and face in the sink. I don't have the energy for a shower, but I find myself staring into the mirror. My eyes are hollowed from lack of sleep. I pull the pins out of my hair, letting it fall down in slightly-rumpled strands around my face. There is a bruise on my cheek. I look terrible.

Sighing, I pull the pyjamas on. Nice fuzzy warm pyjamas which feel wonderfully comfortable. I pull my hair back into a plait and tie it. I pick up the dress and open the door.

Vaughn is still sitting on my couch.

He looks up to see me and smiles ruefully. "Im sorry about the dress."

I look down at the black material. "If the alternative was having to walk around with it permanently attached to my shoulder, I suppose I can forgive you."

"Oh, good." he says. "Because I found chocolate."

Chocolate? He holds up a block of foil-wrapped treasure and grins. Im suddenly very aware that Im wearing my pyjamas, and they're not my best pyjamas. No makeup and bruising starting to show. I must look horrible. And yet I don't really have to worry about that, do I? Vaughn is happily married. Im his partner for this mission. That's all. So I plonk myself down on the couch and take the chocolate, breaking off a large piece. It's delicious.

I reach for my glass, but wince as the movement pulls at my shoulder. Vaughn notices and hands it to me. I settle back to watch the rest of the stupid movie.

It's close to the end. The high-speed, fast-action climax. The heroine in distress, the knight in shining armour (or this case shining duco) is in peril. All seems lost.

"I wonder who wrote this script." Vaughn says, eating more chocolate.

"I wonder who _paid_ them to write it." I return. "Or who paid to go and see it."

"We're watching it now." he points out.

"Only because someone paid for it."

"It's our fault they paid for it."

"So did we make them buy it? No."

"Shut up. Watch the movie."

I do, for a little while, stuffing my face with chocolate and more nice wine. The easy banter reminds me a achingly of a late-night movie session with Will and Francie.

The tension builds. Will the hero arrive in time? They're about to kill her, hurry up, damn you!

"This is so stupid." I say.

"I hate these movies."

"I think you said that."

"Just making sure."

"Shut up. Watch the movie." I giggle at his annoyed glance and snatch more chocolate.

Another diversion. Time's running out ... ah, the Final Confrontation. In which the hero faces his enemy. The hero, in this case a hopelessly cute but far-too-young detective, has a secret weapon - the truth about his enemy's past. And then, distracted, the enemy is thwarted; not killed, but arrested, destined to spend the rest of his days living out his punishment in a prison cell where he belongs. The heroine is rescued. She and the hero are safe, and the world is safe again. Roll the credits.

I sigh and lean back on the couch.

Vaughn sits silent for a moment. "I came over here for a reason."

I settle back, comfortable on the cushions. He seems to be piecing together what he's going to say in his mind. I sit very still.

"I wanted to take this opportunity to talk to you, Sydney. I tried ... at the restaurant, but things didn't exactly the way ..."

Im not going to make this easy for him.

"I know that things haven't been easy for you since you got back. You've been through a lot, most of which you don't even remember. And you're so strong about it, so amazingly brave about it all - it scares me. Syd - what Im trying to say is - you have to remember that two years passed in that time. And for that entire time, we ... I ... thought you were dead."

"Yeah, I know." What am I supposed to say?

"No, no. Just listen. I mean, I actually thought you were dead. And everything, at that point, seemed meaningless. And there was nothing, not even a trace, nothing that could allow me to believe that you were alive." His eyes, here, are directly on me, unblinking.

I can match that. "So you got married." I say blandly.

"That's not the way it happened, and you know it. You said you would have waited, if it had been me that was missing. But can you honestly say that you would have stayed in the state I was in? I mean, how can you ever know unless you're put into the same situation? Do you remember the Circumference? If I had drowned in that water, would you have spent the rest of your life mourning me? I wouldn't have asked you to - I would never have asked you to waste your life like that. I fell in love with Lauren, and I am not going to apologise, now or ever, for loving her."

"I never said you should," I draw my knees up to my chest.

"Falling in love with Lauren doesn't mean that I was never in love with you, Sydney. It doesn't. I was in love with you in a way ... that goes deeper than anything I have ever felt with anyone."

I look away from his piercing gaze, realising that this is as open as he has been with me since I woke up in Hong Kong. I don't want him to go on, because, what I realise now, what dawns on me, is that I know this. I've known it since I found out.

"I just wanted to tell you that, Syd. I just ..."

"You're right," I say, still far too blunt but recognising the past tenses in his voice. "I wouldn't have opened the door if I thought what you had to say wasn't mission-related. Vaughn, I don't know what you want from me ... if you want me to say that it's okay, or if you want me to never talk to you again. Im not going to do either. You don't have to justify anything you do to me or anyone else."

Vaughn frowns. "Thanks," he replies dryly. "Im glad we sorted that out."

"There's nothing to sort out." I go on. "Because there is nothing that needs to be sorted out. The situations in this seem fairly clear-cut to me." As clear-cut as a wedding ring and an urn with my ashes in it. I know that what Im saying is hurting him, but right now I don't really care.

"I see." he sighs and looks away. "You want the last piece of chocolate?" he asks, with a wry smile.

I break into a smile as well, but it's forced, faked. "Yeah. Thanks."

I reach over him to the side table to grab it. At the same time, he reaches to hand it to me, twisting and putting me off-balance - I nearly fall off the couch. Im half bent over him, inches from touching him, his hand poised above mine. I freeze, and so does he. His face is barely a centimetre from mine. If I move at all, I'll lose my balance and fall on him. The smell of his cologne is overridden by the smell of the perspiration and dirt on his shirt.

Suddenly the clear-cut situation dissolves into a myriad of tiny facets, each overlapping another, blurring into indistinguishability.

I could let myself fall on him, laugh it off and push away. I could twist and fall in an undignified heap on the floor. I can tell you which option I would prefer right now, but the wonderfully tangled heap I imagine in my mind doesn't sit so well with the 'married man' situation. I stare at him. He stares back with utmost intensity. I can't read what passes through his eyes.

A strand of my hair falls free, brushing over his shoulder. He reaches up a hand to brush it back, and tucks it gently behind my ear. Still frozen, I stay utterly still as he does it, though the gesture makes my insides quiver. A hand on my shoulder, and he pushes me upright, holding my weight until I have my balance again. I slide away from him, back to my end of the couch, out of touching range.

"Im, um, going to go back to my room." he says, dipping his head, standing.

I nod, dumbly.

"I'll see you in the morning."

I nod again. But he doesn't notice. He's already gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

I bury my face in the couch cushions and sob pathetically.

-------------------------------------

We arrive at the airport on time. Silence reigns in the rental car, as it does while we sit in our seats on the aeroplane. Vaughn has the window seat so that at least he gets to feign interest in the runway. I have to pretend to be fascinated by the magazine I found in the pocket of the seat in front of me.

I flick a glance at Vaughn - he is still looking thoughtfully out the window, fingers resting on his chin. Quickly back to the magazine, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. It's not supposed to be this hard.

"I'll call Dixon once we're on route." his voice breaks into my concentration. "We'll sort out what we're going to do."

I wonder why I torture myself like this.

* * *


	4. Part 4: Faults and Flaws

PART FOUR: Faults and Flaws

_Vaughn's Point of View_

"Yeah, I can hear you."

I wince as static fills the transmission, building up to a feedback signal so high-pitched Im forced to rip the earpiece out. "Ouch, ouch, ouch."

"Okay?" Sydney looks at me from across the hotel room, wide-eyed. Dressed in a long dress of blue silk, patterned with gold Japanese designs and the collar high at the neck in a stylised Japanese way, she is half-hidden by shadows.

"What's wrong with these stupid mikes?" Prying the thing off my ear and examining it for damage.

"I don't know. Maybe they're picking up stray radio signals."

"Im not going in with faulty equipment."

Testily, she replies "We've already lost Fochette twice. Im not doing it again."

"Fine. I'll have to keep the volume down low, or someone will hear it. We'll have to be careful. This needs to go without a hitch." I can't see anything wrong with it. It's a standard-issue piece of equipment, small, lightweight, practically invisible. Maybe it was damaged on the flight over.

"I _know._" Irritation fills her voice, and I know Im pissing her off. Truth is, Im enjoying it a little - Sydney has a lot of sides to her, and each side shows at different times. And because an angry Sydney tends to make me feel less like Im about to walk into something unprepared.

I gingerly slip the earpiece back into my ear. "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" She shoots back, challenging.

Tucking my shirt in a pulling on my jacket, I nod. She checks her reflection in the mirror one last time and sashays out into the hallway. Yes, sashays - the only real option with a dress cut like that. A beautiful dress - and Sydney can make a plastic raincoat look sexy - but no match for the black one. Not even in the same league. Though with her hair caught up like that, and the dark eyeliner accentuating her eyes, she still looks incredibly ...

Cutting my own wandering thoughts off before they can stray any further, I motion for her to leave and lock the hotel door behind me. We head for the elevator. I'd contacted Dixon and he'd given us the operating procedure. Fochette is being careful - he's changed the meeting point and time five times today. However, we were able to secure rooms in the hotel which is opposite the place where Fochette is scheduled to meet with his Covenant contact, tonight at nine o'clock. There's a launch party being held at the conference centre across the road, a marketing thing for a new software product. Lots of international clients so that Fochette won't stand out in the crowd - and neither will whoever he's meeting.

Which makes our job all that much harder.

-------------------------------------

"Is your earpiece working?" Sydney murmurs as we enter the conference centre. There's a security guard at the door, but he lets us through without asking any questions. Once inside, it's clear why Fochette picked this place. A lot of people, bustle, confusion. The indistinct yet noisy sound of a lot of people speaking a lot of different languages in the one area.

"It'll do."

It's a large room, wide, open, with a high ceiling. An indoor fountain, some weird postmodern monstrosity, trickles water over curved slabs of stone in the centre of the room. Waiters move past with tall, slender glasses of champaign, as well as cups of tea. I take neither. Sydney takes tea.

Scanning the crowd for Fochette is going to be a hell of a lot harder than we thought, I realise. There's only two of us. "We should probably split up."

Sydney nods, cursorily, then without another word vanishes into the crowd.

I head the opposite way, weaving towards the north side of the room. Making it look as if Im merely looking for the bathroom, I smile at a few people and wonder who's responsible for the decor in this place - I move behind a screen of some horribly large potted plants with huge glossy leaves that look like they're carnivorous.

"Any sign of him?" I say into the air.

"No." Sydney replies, distractedly. Whistles and crackling sounds distort her voice oddly.

I turn and move back through the crowd, cutting across towards the fountain. Most people seem to be gathered there in the centre. I catch a glimpse of midnight blue silk and find myself following Sydney with my eyes as she moves opposite me, beyond a screen of strangers, smiling politely but looking pale and wan.

I don't really have any way of gauging how much worse I've made things between us, or whether anything has improved. I no longer know how to make sense of this situation - and I certainly don't know what to do about it. Im willing to admit that Im well and truly lost. Maybe there's nothing that can be done about it. One of those things that should just be let go of. And I know that I can't do that, either.

I think that when we get back to the hotel Im going to call Weiss. Screw the time difference. I need to talk to someone, and though my friend will only just remind me that men don't talk about this stuff over the phone, let alone at four in the morning or whatever the hell time it is in Los Angeles, they go out for cheap beer and play a few rounds of pool, at least his jokes will make it seem like it's not so bad. For a while.

I tear my gaze away from Sydney, and my eyes flicker to a single face - a familiar face. It's Fochette.

"Syd, I've got him. By the fountain. He's talking to someone -" I surreptitiously move closer. "I don't recognise him." Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, fairly young. Business suit and tie. "It might be his contact. If they move out of this room we get them both into custody. Don't move otherwise, we can't afford to scare them off."

"I _know _the mission, Vaughn." she hisses, and I wince at the electronic shriek that follows her voice.

I take a glass of champagne, giving me an excuse to take a seat on one of the lounges nearby. I keep an eye on Fochette. There's no way he's going anywhere while I have any say in the matter.

"Im behind him." Sydney says.

I take a sip of champagne.

"So," she goes on. "How you doin'?"

I lower my head to hide my grin, even though there's this horrible lump in my throat, the type that appears right before you're about to start choking out tears. "Oh, you know." I say in a constricted voice. "I was thinking about buying a new car."

"Really?"

"Nah. I just want the free champagne they give you when you go to the right dealer. It's a helluva lot better than this rubbish."

"You should try the tea. It's good for your heart."

"My heart? No, unless it contains a miracle cure for headaches, Im not interested. My earpiece is still acting up and it hurts." And my headache just got worse. Fochette and the young businessman stand up. They shake hands, then separate.

"Syd, you got the second man?"

"Im on him. Stick to Fochette. We'll see if they meet up." Oddly convoluted whistles die in a crescendo.

Oh, yeah, this is fun. I used to pretend I was a spy when I was little. I think every kid does. I'd seen the movies, I had a plastic toy gun, and I'd sneak around the house. Strange how it was never like that in real life. There was the surge of adrenaline, the excitement, yeah, it can be thrilling. But it's never been fun. Well, it's come close. With Sydney when we broke into the Vatican that time. It was fun at the time. But this, now, this isn't fun at all.

I shadow the man through the crowd. He's getting good at this. He moves frequently, talks briefly to a few people, and constantly scans the crowd. I keep a good distance, let him move. Sure enough, he heads for the hallway that leads out of the room. There are security guards posted there, and it'll be interesting to see how he gets past them.

"Our man has just gone through the security guards. He had a badge that let him through. Im going after him."

"Keep yourself concealed." I say, and Fochette heads the same way. There's a roped off area up ahead. The security guards move to stop him, but he shows some sort of identification and they let him pass. I step up to the guards. One man looks me up and down, and he's wearing some ridiculously professional-looking uniform. Behind him, a woman turns around briefly to face me. Wearing the same uniform, but I can see instantly that she isn't Japanese: small wisps of blond hair trail from under her cap. She's short. Young. And I know that face -

"Sydney," I turn my head aside so that I can speak into the mike without it looking too suspicious. "Sydney, Fochette's girlfriend is here. The young blond woman - she's in a security guards uniform. I don't know ... this might be a trap. Sydney?"

An odd sounding low buzzing noise is all that filters through.

"Sydney?" The blond woman looks nothing like she did the other night at the restaurant, yet I recognise her instantly as the woman who had been leaning on Fochette's arm. She slips away from the barricade, walking unnoticed down the corridor away from me, after the man that Sydney is trailing. "Sydney, respond."

Oh boy, this isn't good. Jogging up to the barricade, I hope the man speaks English. "Im with the CIA. I need to apprehend two men who just walked bast this barrier."

"They had passes." The guard replies. "So I let them through, and a woman in a blue dress. Have I done something wrong?"

"No, no. You're fine. I need to get through - excuse me ..."

The man looks slightly frightened, but his partner nods and lets me through. I've lost time, and lost sight of Fochette around a corner in the hallway. I break into a jog after him.

The corridor ahead of me is empty. Shit, shit, shit. "Sydney, take your suspect into custody _now. _Get out of there. Can you hear me?"

There's no reply.

"Sydney?"

Passing a door, I open it and check within - a cleaners closet. I cross the hallway to the opposing door - it's locked. "Sydney, if you can hear me, respond."

The next door is open, the lights on. A small entranceway leads to a smaller breifing room, a conference table in the centre. I can't see much else at present, given the angle that Im on - but the sound of someone talking, low and hurriedly, reaches me. To be on the safe side, I draw my gun and hold it loosely in my hand. Keeping close to the wall, I inch up so that I can see around the corner and get a view of the room beyond. Slowly peek around the corner.

Fochette stands there, looking dishevelled, almost flustered. He's back against the wall, hands flat against it, looking wildly around the room. "Alana," he croaks. "What are you doing?"

My gaze sweeps across to the blond woman standing near the window. A gun in her hands, trained on Fochette, unwavering. Whoever she is, she's done this before.

"Put the gun ..." Fochette goes on.

"On your knees!" Alana barks, motioning with the gun. "Now! Where's your contact? I saw you leave the hall with him."

"I don't know where he is!" Fochette wails. "He was supposed to meet me here out here."

She sighs impatiently. "Damn it. This is all going to hell."

And she pulls the trigger.

I try not to flinch, but as Fochette's blood splatters the wall crimson and the body slides lifeless to the floor, I feel the shot as if it hit my own body. I pull back instinctively, flattening myself to the wall. I can hear Alana moving, crossing to where Fochette has fallen. She's talking - she's got a cell phone.

"I've got the disk," she says. "No. No. It's _not _my fault. He didn't show, and someone interfered - a woman. I don't know who she's with."

My veins suddenly feel like they're pumping liquid nitrogen rather than blood, and the temperature in the room plummets to freezing. Could she have discovered Sydney? She'd just shot Fochette. Was ... could ... no, Sydney can_not_ be ...

"Yes, of course I'll take the necessary precautions. Don't lecture me about my job. I know. I'll find out. I've got the disk on me. I'll be at the safehouse, but Im not going anywhere until I figure out who these people are and who put them onto me. Don't want to take any chances, am I right?"

Bringing my gun up, I inch back around the corner and scan the room. The blond woman is crouched over the body of Fochette, holding a small black disk in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Her gun rests on the floor beside her.

"I told you - yes, yes. No. I don't have time to look for him. He must have gotten wind of what was going down and done a runner. We'll pick up his trail later - I have to take care of this little matter first. The woman has a partner, and he'll be around here somewhere. I'll be in touch."

She stuffs the phone into her pocket and picks up the gun. I follow her with my eyes as she steps over the still warm corpse and heads towards the back of the room. There's a shape lying there, in the shadows.

I peer intently, trying to make it out, straining my eyes. I don't hear the creak of the door behind me as I should have. There's nothing to warn me until something hard and heavy hits me in the back of the head, slamming me sideways into the wall. And as I lose the short struggle for consciousness, I can still see it in my mind - Sydney's crumpled form, lying prone on the floor, Alana standing over her with a gun in her hand.

And then the shooting starts.

* * *

Oh no! Poor Sydney and Vaughn ...

More soonish.


End file.
